Melchior

The Mahonia waits my return
six feet, crowned with yellow flowers
king among plants, dark green leaves heavy snow
hiding from frost’s  icy pall,casting a silver spell,
holding the garden in thrall as I make for home.
More snow to come they say.
My shoes with crampons come to their own,
seven quid well spent .. . . . . . .

My walking stick warming in the corner by the door
its carved proud head held high, Melchior his name,
wise, true as any of the Three.
blackthorn to my waist five coats of varnish,
slightly bending at my right hand
We go to the wood together take care on icy roads,
five green layers, black scarf about my neck,
peak cap, a pocket full of biscuits,
whistle on my chest, Jack gone on ahead.